“There is little doubt of it,” said the pedlar, “the hand of God is in it all.”
“That's more than I see, or can at the present time, then,” replied Hanlon. “Why should my aunt stay away so long?—but I dare say the truth is, she is either sick or dead, an' if that's the case, what's all you have said or done worth? You see it's but a chance still.”
“Trust in God,” replied the pedlar, “that's all either of us can do or say now. There's the coffin. I'm tould they're goin' to bury him, and to have the greatest funeral that ever was in the counthry; but, God knows, there's funerals enough in the neighborhood widout their making a show of themselves wid this.”
“There's no truth in that report either,” said Hanlon. “I was speakin' to Jerry Sullivan this mornin', an' I have it from him that they intend to bury him as quietly as they can. He's much changed from what he was—Jerry is—an' doesn't wish to have the old man hanged at all, if he can prevent it.”
“Hanged or not, Charley, I must go on with my petition to Dick o' the Grange. Of course I have no chance, but maybe the Lord put something good into Travers's heart, when he bid me bring it to him; at any rate it can do no harm.”
“Nor any earthly good,” replied the other. “The farm is this minute the property of Darby Skinadre, an' to my knowledge Master Dick has a good hundred pounds in his pocket for befriendin' the meal-monger.”
“Still an' all, Charley, I'll go to the father, if it was only bekaise the agent wishes it; I promised I would, an' who knows at any rate but he may do something for the poor Daltons himself, when he finds that the villain that robbed and ruined them won't.”
“So far you may be right,” said Hanlon, “an' as you say, if it does no good it can do no harm; but for my part, I can scarcely think of anything but my poor aunt. What, in God's name, except sickness or death, can keep her away, I don't know.”
“Put your trust in God, man—that's my advice to you.”
“And a good one it is,” replied the other, “if we could only follow it up as we ought. Every one here wondhers at the change that's come over me—I that was so light and airy, and so fond of every divarsion that was to be had, am now as grave as a parson; but indeed no wondher, for ever since that awful night at the Grey Stone—since both nights indeed—I'm not the same man, an' feel as if there was a weight come over me that nothing will remove, unless we trace the murdher, an' I hardly know what to say about it, now that my aunt isn't forthcommin'”